


After

by TooRational



Series: The Hug Incident [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Jesus (Walking Dead) overthinks things, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 12:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13099953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/pseuds/TooRational
Summary: Things are awkward between them, after.Or: The sequel to "Maybe together", though it can be read as a stand-alone.Here's what happens next.





	After

**Author's Note:**

> Because they wouldn't leave me alone, as always. <3
> 
> Rating for language.

Things are awkward between them, after.

After the very unexpected and uncharacteristic mini-breakdown Paul had, and the even more surprising hug Daryl had... _folded_ him into.

The warm, gentle, _incredibly_ comforting hug. A hug that was the exact opposite of everything Daryl is, or at least everything he seems to be.

Paul is starting to wonder if there's even more to the hunter than he'd thought. More than his prickly side, more than his strategic mind, more than his skills and quick temper and fierce loyalty, more than the angry and half-broken version of him Paul had saved from the Sanctuary.

More than the ruthless soldier Daryl's been pretending to be.

It -- the hug, that is -- ended as abruptly as it started. Paul had felt the tension in Daryl's body immediately, felt him grow nervous and uncomfortable in mere seconds, and promptly pulled back, unwilling to risk a moment of comfort turning sour. He's always been very conscious of personal space, and especially of the boundaries of 'normal' interactions. His skin crawls if someone unwanted invades his quote-unquote 'personal space bubble' -- which is fucking ironic since he's also been touch starved as long as he can remember.

That's why, once he'd collected himself, he found it a bit weird to cling to someone he'd barely been friends with so far. More reluctant allies than anything.

No matter how good it felt.

And anyway, Daryl is not the type to be associated with Paul, they're completely different people. Sure, he's hot as burning, and a good man on top of that, one of the best Paul knows. But he'd probably drive Daryl insane within minutes, their sharp edges catching and making both of them bleed.

Paul would hate for that to happen.

So he'd decided in a split second that it was better not to cause any friction at all.

Paul had cleared his throat and said _'Thanks'_ in a raspy voice, and Daryl kind of nodded. Paul then turned and made a beeline for his trailer.

He didn't see Daryl again until after the final battle.

~*~

It stayed with him, that hug, is the thing. Stays with him still, almost a month later.

He remembers it at the strangest of times, feels the phantom imprint of hands around his back, smells the unique combination of smells that's labeled 'Daryl' in his mind.

And it's utterly ridiculous, getting so hung up on something almost insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but he is. He's had short-term relationships that didn't make him feel as much as this one hug did, for Christ's sake.

Does. As much as the hug _still does_.

_Goddammit._

~*~

Daryl acts as if nothing happened when they see each other, as if nothing changed, and it kind of didn't but it also definitely did, and Paul is annoyed.

He'd probably be much _more_ annoyed if he hadn't caught Daryl staring at him a good number of times, a frown on his face like he's trying to figure this shit out just like Paul himself.

It's strangely comforting, to know he's not the only at a loss here. In this weird situation where you feel like you've seen someone bare, stripped of all defenses, and you don't even know them all that well. Where you shared a moment that neither of you can't get out of your heads, but don't really know how to either proceed to something new or get back to the uneasy equilibrium you had before.

It's a pickle, that's for sure.

~*~

Paul finds himself in a _real_ pickle about two months after The Hug Incident, as he's taken to calling it in his head. (Yes, he feels ridiculous about the name and the capital letters. No, he still not over it.)

In a strange sequence of events he'd rather not even think about, he finds himself stranded without a car, and with a really painful twisted ankle in the middle of the woods. Like some clueless fucking newbie. He'd been doing this for years now, where the fuck has his head been today, that he managed to land in this steaming pile of shit?

He knows where, but admitting it is out of the question right now, not if he plans to keep his cool.

Luckily, he also knows he's near Alexandria, which is currently being rebuilt after Negan burned it almost to the ground. And the good thing about that is that he started carrying one of those long-range radios with him on runs, every scout and runner has been issued one once the war ended. All four communities have them, too, carried by guards on the walls just in case something like this happens.

It's moments like these that the new, tentative infrastructure they're putting into place proves to be the saving grace, adding one more day to the borrowed time they all live on, and becoming one more proof they were on the right side of this conflict. However messy and soul-wrenchingly horrible it was at times.

Paul radios in his approximate position to the Alexandrian guards and settles in for a long wait.

~*~

Of course they send Daryl. _Of course._

Who's better at tracking, who knows these woods better than him? Who is the first one to jump at the chance to help out, or provide something the community needs?

It's always Daryl.

"Hey," Paul says, as nonchalantly as possible while leaning on a tree because his butt grew numb from sitting.

"Hey," Daryl replies, head a bit cocked in that typical Daryl way.

He's much calmer now, after the short but brutal war with the Saviors. Maybe that should be calmer _again_ , Paul doesn't really know what Daryl was like before all this. He still has his surly disposition and the piercing stare that makes you feel like he's reading something straight from your soul, but he's also quieter, a lot less likely to explode.

In fact, Paul can't remember the last time he saw Daryl angry, after The Hug. He's like deep, dark waters now -- it takes a lot to get a rise out of him.

There's a melancholy around him, though, spells of sadness that cling, days when he's pale and even more withdrawn than usual. Those make Paul's chest ache, a desire to help and touch and soothe rising in him uncontrollably, but he _can't_. It's not his place, he hasn't been invited or welcome in Daryl's space yet. So he cracks jokes, sneaks around and sets up harmless pranks, tries to involve Daryl in ridiculous conversations and debates designed to take his mind off things.

A tiny smile curling Daryl's lips is the best reward he's had so far. And just like The Hug, it made him feel much more than such a small reaction should.

Ever the overachiever, when it comes to emotions drawn out of Paul, that's Daryl.

"C'mon, the car's near," the man in question says, and slings the crossbow on his back so it's out of the way.

They walk back slowly, Paul using Daryl to stay off his ankle, sides pressed together in a comforting, warm line.

And as ridiculous as it is, a small part of him is relieved.

_Everything is going to be fine now. Daryl's here._

He shakes off the thought and concentrates on walking, and not looking at Daryl more than is (relatively) normal.

It's surprisingly hard.

~*~

Harlan, who by some stroke of luck happens to be at Alexandria at the moment, bandages his ankle and gives him a few painkillers. It's just a twist, he says, but judging by the pain the ligaments could be torn. He has to rest, ice his ankle and keep it elevated, and of course, _stay off the ankle_.

The last thing is said as if it's a strict instruction from a trained medical professional that nonetheless expects to be ignored, and Paul musters up his most innocent look and nods solemnly in agreement.

It's not like he's always wandering off _on purpose_ , it's just that he's got stuff to do. He can stay off his ankle for whatever period is needed, really.

Honest.

They plan on going back to the Hilltop together tomorrow, Harlan and him, and get one of the spare houses used for travelers and runners between communities to spend the night in.

Paul is tired after the day he's had but his head is also buzzing, thoughts like flies, body too tired to switch off. So, after Harlan retires to his bedroom, he sprawls on the living room couch, head on the armrest and ankle on a pillow, and decides to read a bit.

He falls asleep within minutes, the painkillers knocking him out mercilessly, book forgotten on his lap.

~*~

Paul rouses a bit to someone shaking his shoulder but he can't open his eyes, eyelids strapped with a ton of weight each, and he sinks again before he can even open his mouth.

He swims back closer to consciousness when warmth spreads along his left side, arms that feel familiar sliding around his back and under his knees, followed by the sensation of being lifted. He wants to protest, wake up and say he'll walk to bed on his own, but he simply _cannot_.

And he feels safe here, surrounded and weightless. Like nothing bad can happen to him.

His cheek lands on something firm covered by soft fabric, and his forehead ends up cradled in a crook of a neck. Paul inhales and the smell, too, is familiar. He murmurs _'Daryl'_ , more hum than sound, and shifts closer. He always wants to be closer to Daryl, always wants to go back into his arms where he was for such a short time, and right now he just can't remember why he usually doesn't do it.

The previously smooth movement hitches a bit, hands tightening and the chest he's cradled against rising a bit more sharply, but it soon passes. Heavy boots make surprisingly little sound on the wooden floors, like the owner is trying to keep it down and avoid waking anyone up. The thoughtfulness of the gesture penetrates the fog and Paul's lips twitch in an attempt at a smile.

_'Daryl'_ is his last thought and he's out again, not even halfway to the bedroom.

~*~

In the morning he could very well assign everything to a fever dream, but for the fact that he definitely woke up in a different place from where he fell asleep, and he's still in his clothes under the covers.

And he doesn't sleepwalk, as far as he knows.

He is _mortified_ , groaning and covering his face with both arms, falling back on the bed.

A grown man carried to bed like a child? It's humiliating. He can't remember that happening since before the group homes and foster parents, let alone now, in this mess of a world. Never mind the fact that it's one of the nicest things anyone has done for him in the last few years. And never mind that it's almost intimate, meaning something he'd usually shy away from.

Paul _doesn't_ mind, though. He wouldn't even mind if he'd found Daryl sleeping next to him this morning, which would definitely be a violation if anyone else tried to do it.

It seems like Daryl is the exception to a lot of things.

Paul finds himself helpless to do anything about it.

~*~

Daryl acts as if nothing happened, _again_ , but says he's coming with Paul and Harlan to the Hilltop. Something about Maggie needing help, now that baby Hershel arrived, and that he can hunt and scavenge from anywhere.

Paul doesn't dare to hope it's also a little bit because of him, takes his heart firmly in a fist and tells it to be quiet, but a tiny tendril still blooms.

He always was the hopeful sort.

~*~

Incredibly, this new pattern of behavior continues.

Daryl is there when Paul is having trouble getting up the Barrington House stairs to see Maggie, a steady hand on the small of his back lending support and strength to complete the trek.

Daryl is there when Paul finishes tumbling around with the Hilltop kids, a hand waiting patiently to pull him to his feet in one smooth, controlled movement.

Daryl is there when Paul does the writing-the-alphabet-with-his-toes exercise, snickering at him and teasing mercilessly, but also helping him stretch after, and even digging up a freaking marble somewhere for Paul to practice more picking-things-up-with-his-toes. The desire the throw the marble at his stupid head is strong, but Paul resists. Because he's _nice_.

Daryl is also there when Paul overestimates his recovery and almost ends up re-injuring himself when he steps on a freaking pebble wrong, and only Daryl's quick reaction saves him from a painful collision with the ground when his ankle starts giving and twisting from under him. He gets a minute-long lecture from Daryl after that, too, which is mind-blowing, since a few seconds are usually more than enough for someone to get a piece of Daryl's mind. Apparently, Paul manages to excel as a fuck-up in this situation, too.

The thing is -- Daryl comes and finds Paul, and helps him, over and over again, and it surprises Paul every single time even though it really shouldn't. This is who Daryl _is_ , a silent backbone of the group, the spine everything rests on. He helps and makes things easier, makes them possible.

But that's not even the shocking part.

It's that Daryl _reaches_ for him, over and over, hands and arms pulling him a little bit closer every time. Daryl pulls Paul into his space -- the same space that's guarded and hostile to most people -- and steps confidently into Paul's -- the space that's elusive and impenetrable to others.

And Paul always, _always_ reaches back. He steps into that space and _stays_. He's helpless against it, hands gravitating towards Daryl on their own, landing on soft fabric, calloused skin, and corded muscles. His body is _so_ unwilling to separate once it's near Daryl's, it's hard to believe, and retreat is the last thing he can force himself to do.

Because a choice between being close to Daryl in any possible way or being away from him is not a choice at all.

~*~

Finally, Daryl is in Paul's trailer every night, too.

It's where he lived while he was hiding from the Saviors, and Paul can't really say he minds him being there. He fits in the space, looks natural there like few people do, other than Maggie and Sasha and Enid.

But it's yet another level of mind-fuck that's slowly driving Paul insane, yet another space that is filled with Daryl, like his thoughts and his stupid heart are, to the fucking _brim_.

They're both overflowing, Daryl a constant presence inside and outside, and Paul wonders how much longer this can go on. How long until something gives?

_Let it not be something irreparable, please._

~*~

And one random and completely ordinary day, Paul breaks.

He just can't take it anymore. The longing and the questioning have taken their toll, and his brain had started playing tricks on him, is making him think there's something there when there probably isn't.

Probably, maybe, perhaps -- he's starting to _hate_ those words with previously unimagined passion. He _needs_ to know where he stands, _now_ , one way or another.

Daryl's hand brushes his shoulder blade in yet another attempt to be a crutch, or an extra hand, or a tool, and Paul spins around. Daryl is more than a tool, more than something to be used and put away when done with, and Paul should really tell him as much but that's a battle for another time.

The sudden motion leaves them close, right in each other's faces, and Daryl startles a bit but doesn't move away. He drops his hand and looks at Paul, calm and silent.

It messes with Paul's head, this behavior of Daryl's, like he knows something Paul doesn't. And Paul isn't used to not having the advantage in any given situation, it doesn't happen very often. Analyzing people and situations, finding the path of least resistance to getting what he wants in mere seconds, that's his thing.

_This_ is making him nervous as hell.

"Daryl," Paul starts, and doesn't know where to go with it. He probably looks like a goldfish, and feels foolish for it, which is definitely not helping right now.

"Yeah?" Daryl says quietly, apparently content to wait while Paul relearns how to formulate thoughts and words again.

Silence spreads between them, rolling like a fog.

"I wanted to, uh..." Paul trails away again, voice lost.

He has no idea how they ended up here, with him flustered and Daryl the picture of a Tibetan fucking monk level of zen, but he doesn't like it.

But... nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Paul screws up his courage and steps closer, _too close_ , hoping that will convey what his vocal cords obviously can't. He is the textbook definition of a _hot mess_ , alarms blaring and panicked thoughts circling, but tries to control himself using every single technique he knows.

It figures that Daryl makes him more anxious than a herd of walkers, or being held hostage at gunpoint by a creepy Savior.

_Of-fucking-course._

Daryl's eyes are impossibly blue this close, the shape so familiar and dear that Paul could draw it in his sleep. He can't stop staring at them, at Daryl, probably looking like a creep by now, and his stomach sinks but then Daryl leans in and _holy shit_ , Daryl is _leaning in_.

The sinking in his stomach turns into a swooping sensation, making him a bit nauseous but everything is fine, it's fine, this is not a drill, Daryl is--

Their lips meet in a soft kiss and Paul's breath just _goes away_. It's gone, nowhere to be found in his lungs, sayonara.

Strong hands come up to cup Paul's face and he melts, sways into Daryl helplessly, heart beating a rapid staccato. It's indescribable, the feeling of Daryl's hands on him, Daryl's body pressed close, and Paul's fingers are no longer grasping on mere air like the loneliest fucking thing on this planet.

An arm winds around his shoulder and back, pulling him into Daryl, closer and closer still, and he goes willingly, _gladly_. Any distance is too much right now.

Daryl's palm hand slides into Paul's hair, cups the nape of his neck tenderly, thumb rubbing gently at his hairline. The sensation makes him shiver, delightful goose bumps spreading over his skin. He can't help a quiet moan, his hand clutching at the back of Daryl's shirt, willing him not to move.

They kiss slow, and gentle, and exploring, and with growing confidence, and Paul can't believe this is happening.

...wait.

_How_ is this happening, _what--_

"What..." Paul says when they separate for air, head spinning and breath choppy. Their cheeks are pressed together, beards scratching lightly, and his eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

_God_ , all this contact feels _so good_. It's like a hit of pleasure straight to his veins, lighting up every single cell in his body. There is no drug on Earth that can give him a high better than this.

"What took you so long," Daryl whispers near his ear, and Paul breath stutters along with his brain.

"I... I don't understand," he says with eyes still closed, because what Daryl is saying makes no sense. Not that much of anything makes sense right now, his head is too busy processing the tons of information his senses are collecting to really work at yet another level, but still.

Paul's arms aren't confused at all, though, winding around Daryl like vines, every move an excuse to touch more, find new areas to explore.

"I've been waitin' for months," Daryl says, trailing a line of kisses along his temple and cheekbone, "What took you so long?"

Paul pulls back and looks at him, half a frown already in place when the realization hits him.

The Hug Incident. _That's_ what Daryl is talking about. That was probably the exact moment he made the decision to give this thing a try, to give _Paul_ a chance.

_Holy shit._

And looking back now, the tensing and nervousness was probably Daryl being unsure about how to proceed, not him pulling back and regretting the contact. It was Paul's issues keeping them apart all this time, his own insecurities making him doubt Daryl would be interested in him, and not Daryl himself.

Paul laughs, relieved and giddy, and kisses Daryl again.

"You could've come to me, you asshole, instead of waiting for me pull my head out of my ass," he chastises between more kisses, tasting Daryl over and over, pulling him closer with eager fingers. He never thought he'd get the chance to do any of this and now he's drunk on it, can't decide what to do next, like a kid in a candy store.

Daryl smirks, tucks an errant strand of hair behind Paul's ear, and kisses him back.

"Nah, where's the fun in that?" Daryl says and bites Paul's bottom lip lightly.

Paul shivers and whispers ' _Asshole_ ' against Daryl's lips again.

_'Prick'_ echoes faintly before it gets lost between them.

_Fuck_ , Paul is so fucking in love with this man, it kind of terrifies him.

Heart at once fluttering frantically and shining like a supernova, Paul touches Daryl reverently, all the while _knowing_ deep in his very bones that there is nothing he wants more than to keep doing it, for infinite more times, in infinite more ways.

~*~

Paul regains full mobility two months after the injury, four months after the Hug Incident, and two weeks after The Kiss.

Only one of those things remains a measure for time After in the many years to come, although Daryl likes to argue that The Hug is really their anniversary, and not The Kiss. It's not his fault that Paul is a dumbass who needed two months to figure out what was right in front of his nose.

Paul just blows him a raspberry and shuts him up with kisses, not in the least bit concerned with _when_ they got together.

The most important thing is that they _did_.


End file.
